


The Wooing of Sam Winchester

by sarapunzel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:18:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarapunzel/pseuds/sarapunzel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sam hastily turns down Gabriel's request to make their relationship official, the archangel embarks on a six-day endeavor to shower Sam with grand romantic gestures until he agrees to be Gabriel's boyfriend, with unsurprisingly disastrous results. (written for A Very Sabriel Christmas Secret Santa 2012!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wooing of Sam Winchester

**MONDAY, 11:57 PM.**

Sam is lying in bed, his face lit with the sickly glow of the laptop screen. He’s been doing paperwork all night, and by now the numbers are starting to blend together. The monotony is mind-numbing. Just as Sam’s eyelids are closing, succumbing to the weight of acute boredom, his phone rings. Sam starts and yelps, the laptop sliding off the bed and landing with a painful clatter. With a sigh, Sam answers the phone, wincing as he leans over the side of the bed to check on his laptop. Dean’s voice, gravelly and hard, rumbles in his ear.

“Sam. Turn on the news.”

Sam yawns. “Dean, it’s late.”

“Dude, just turn it on. Seriously.”

Grudgingly Sam sits up and fishes around for the remote control under the pillow. He clicks the TV on and switches to channel seven.  The pretty brunette meteorologist is gesticulating wildly, obviously hopped up on some serious caffeine, practically yelling into the camera. “They say God works in mysterious ways, but tonight, heaven’s broadcasting a message loud and clear!”

The screen pans to the dark purple night sky, littered with stars—which seem to be arranged in a new constellation. But it’s not a shape. It’s a sentence:

**_I LOVE SAM!_ **

complete with a glittering exclamation point. Dean says, “Did you see it? Are you watching?”

“Yeah, yeah I see it,” Sam replies, a little breathless.

“What the hell, man?”

Sam rolls his eyes to the ceiling and gulps. “Gabriel.”

“Oh,  _fuck_.”

 

 

**TUESDAY, 7:31 AM.**

Sam rolls out of bed with the distinctive kind of hangover that comes, not from an overconsumption of alcohol, but from when something terrible has happened the night before that one has yet to properly address. Sam groans, cradling his face in his hands. Gabriel’s words echo menacingly in his head: _“What more do you want? You want romance? You got it, kiddo_.” It had sounded more like a threat than a proposal.

In Sam’s defense, Gabriel  _had_  charged into the bathroom while Sam was clipping his toenails, so the potential for romance had already been dramatically reduced. When Gabriel more or less demanded that Sam go out with him on a ‘real date’, Sam had immediately, understandably declined. Yelling, “GET THE HELL OUT OF MY BATHROOM! THIS IS NOT A GOOD TIME!” might have been slightly dramatic, but come on. He was clipping his _toenails_. That’s not exactly the way one wants to be discovered by a potential boyfriend, not this early in the relationship. But it appeared that Gabriel hadn’t been even remotely put off, and the moment Sam’s feet hit the floor that morning, it becomes quite clear that the angel had been utterly serious about his intentions.

For as soon as Sam’s toes touch the carpet, he feels something small and ticklish curl against his feet. Thinking he’s stepped on a dust bunny, he glances down—and does a triple take. Twining lovingly around his ankles is a vibrant green vine, its soft leaves unfurling and stretching out. Sam shouts and pulls his feet up to the bed, staring confusedly down at the swiftly growing plant. “What the—?” he mutters. After a few seconds of contemplation, he slowly leans over to tap the carpet with his finger.

Nothing happens.

Sam laughs tensely and stands up; but within a half-second of doing so, new plants begin to sprout beneath the pads of his feet. In a panic, Sam bolts to the bathroom, leaving a trail of colorful little blooms behind him. He quickly hoists himself up to sit on the sink, his feet dangling an inch above the tiles. As expected, more flowers and vines sprout miraculously from the cold linoleum. “Jesus Christ,” Sam swears, then much more accurately: “ _Gabriel_.”

Sam spends the morning hopping from one piece of furniture to the next in an attempt to curb the amount of flora flourishing on his floors, but after a few hours of this, he gives up and simply resigns himself to walking around in a veritable Garden of Eden, afraid to leave the apartment in case his sudden green thumb (toes?) freaks out any of the neighbors. Just before he falls asleep that night, he finds a Post-it note affixed to his bedside lamp that reads:

_“I got you flowers!”_

**WEDNESDAY, 9:06 AM.**

When Sam awakes, he is immediately assaulted by an aggressive smell; it’s sickly-sweet and the air is thoroughly saturated with it. Before he can even draw a full breath, he realizes that his face is sticky—in fact, it’s sticking to the bed. Carefully he pulls free and scrutinizes the damage.

It’s not drool. It’s candy.

Sam sits up with a jolt and looks around, horrified. It’s  _all_  candy.

The walls are pink-and-white striped peppermint, the floor is thankfully flower-free, but upon closer inspection, Sam sees that it’s made entirely of tightly-spun cotton candy. The bed beneath him is some sort of colored marzipan, with pastel icing piped along the hems. Sam groans, realizing that he’s no longer wearing the plain grey boxers he’d gone to sleep in; no, he’s wearing a string candy thong and socks that appear to be some kind of fudgy brown confection. “Gabriel! No. This is not okay. Come on!” Sam yells across the Hansel-and-Gretel house that was once his humble apartment.

But no answer comes, not until that night, when Sam finds a new Post-it stuck to his lamp:

_“I didn’t know what kind of candy you liked, so I got you all of them!”_

**THURSDAY, 7:39 AM.**

This morning, when the alarm sounds, Sam is relieved to find that his apartment is back to normal. There are no flowers growing on the floor, no candy sofas. Sam heaves a grateful sigh and packs up to head to work, whistling.

When he arrives, he waves at the girl behind the front desk, who smiles and greets him cheerfully. “Bonjour, Monsieur Winchester!” she chirps. Sam frowns for a moment, then carries on down the hall. Perhaps she’s taking French at college, Sam reasons.

He walks into his office and sits down behind his desk to start sorting through paperwork. There’s a knock at the door, and then Sam’s boss Mr. Henriksen steps in. “Good morning,” Sam says.

But it doesn’t sound like “good morning”. It sounds a hell of a lot like “bonjour”.

And when Mr. Henriksen replies, “Faisez ces feuilles de calcul pour cet après-midi.”  _(“Do those spreadsheets for this afternoon.”)_ Sam blinks in confusion. His boss cocks his head and narrows his eyes. “Ça va?” _(“Are you okay?”)_

“Ça va,”  _(“I’m okay.”)_  Sam says calmly. Henriksen nods and backs out of the doorway with a mock salute. As soon as the door closes, Sam ransacks the office in search of a Post-it note, praying fiercely to Gabriel the whole time—in fluent French.

“C’est pas drôle, Gabriel!”  _(“This isn’t funny, Gabriel!”)_  he spits, digging through his trash bin like a madman. Suddenly his laptop beeps, and a computerized male voice states: “Vous avez le courrier.”  _(“You’ve got mail.”)_

Sam clambers to his feet and dives into the swivel chair, clicking on the little envelope icon on his taskbar to open his email. The sender is listed simply as “Heaven”, and the message reads:

  _“_ _Français est la langue d’amour!” (“French is the language of love!”)_

With an animalistic growl that subscribes to no language in particular, Sam deletes the email and slams the laptop shut.

**FRIDAY, 5:52 PM.**

All day, Sam’s been essentially holding his breath. At any second, he could be assaulted by some new pseudo-romantic fever dream of Gabriel’s, and every hour that passes without incident only serves to add to his anxiety. By the time Sam gets home after work, he’s already chewed all of his fingernails down to the quick, and he’s fumbling with his keys at the apartment door, ready to collapse on the couch with a beer (or five). But when he steps through the door, he gasps and drops his duffel bag, horrified at the bizarre and impossible situation before him.

In the middle of the cramped living room, amidst the flotsam and jetsam of dirty laundry and half-empty pizza boxes, stands the Beatles. Not life-sized cardboard cutouts, not Beatles impersonators. The _actual Beatles_ are grinning crookedly and tossing their flat, shaggy mops of hair in the middle of Sam’s apartment. Sam opens his mouth to say—something, though there’s not a single thought in his head that could even remotely correspond with his mouth in any coherent or realistic way—and his garbled confusion is interrupted by the sudden clang of a cymbal and a subsequent drum beat and riff that lives in infamy, as much a part of the world’s heartbeat as the ebb and flow of the ocean.

This kicks off the song.

Sam stares, gape-mouthed, as the tambourines, guitars, drum sticks, and toe-tapping swell and layer with the voices of the actual B-E-A-T-L-E-S singing, “ _Oh yeah, I’ll tell you something. I think you’ll understand. When I say that something, I wanna hold your hand!_ ”

The song carries on, like the surrealistic fantasy of a crazed Beatlemaniac tripping on, well, whatever most Beatlemaniacs tripped on back in the day. Sam stands paralyzed in the doorway, but the Beatles seem unfazed. They beam and nod and sway and harmonize perfectly, like one of those grainy Ed Sullivan recordings, and then finally the song ends. Sam panics, wondering what the hell he ought to do with—for Christ’s sake— the _Beatles_. How will current-day Paul McCartney feel about coming face-to-face with his 20-something-year-old self? Sam assumes probably not well.

But he doesn’t have to worry long, because as soon as the final note fades out, the Beatles seem to start shrinking into themselves, almost as though they’re melting. Sam yelps and rushes forward, unsure of how to approach this.

The next moment, it’s difficult to believe that the Beatles had ever been there. The black-and-white suits are gone, the mop-heads vanished.

In their places stand four very disoriented, probably stoned teenage hipsters, blinking and flinching like newborn giraffes in the African sunshine. They begin to take stock of their location and quickly start murmuring, “what the hell?”, “where are we?”, and “has anyone seen my iPhone?”

They, the young leaders of tomorrow, turn to Sam questioningly. Sam splutters for a moment and then herds them out into the hallway, shoving crumpled wads of cash at them. “Uh, that should be more than enough for bus fare and—um, emotional reimbursement,” he mutters. The hipsters take a few stumbling steps, then break into a run. Sam retreats to his apartment, shoves the door closed, and collapses to the floor in shock.

“Gabriel,” he says, closing his eyes, “I swear to god, if those kids end up taking me to court for kidnapping or something, I’m going to kill you. I will rip off your halo and use it as a Frisbee.”

There’s the shudder of wings and that unmistakable candy-store smell, and then the angel Gabriel sidles down to the floor and drapes an arm around Sam’s shoulder. “Come on, you gotta at least give me points for creativity.”

“Those kids are probably scarred for life!” Sam exclaims, but he doesn’t move away.

“Oh, pfft,” Gabriel spits dismissively, “I already wiped their memories. As far as they know, they’ve been at a Lana Del Rey concert.”

Sam snorts. “On second thought, maybe you should’ve let them think they got kidnapped.”

“Kids these days,” Gabriel sighs, shaking his head. “You know, I was there for Woodstock. Those bitches knew how to throw down.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t even a fetus at that point,” Sam replies, wrinkling his nose. “Weird.”

“That’s why banging a Janis Joplin roadie didn’t count as cheating,” Gabriel says cheerily. “You didn’t exist yet.”

“Oh, that’s classy.”

Gabriel nudges Sam’s shoulder. “So, you ready to make this official?”

Sam glares at him. “Hmm. Well, let’s see. You made my apartment into fucking _Fern Gully_ , then it was Candyland, then you made everything French—which, by the way, is going to give me nightmares for the next decade or so—and then you dumped a group of stoners into my living room. What do  _you_  think?”

The angel shrugs. “Y-yes?”

“Try again.”

Gabriel gets to his feet and dusts off his shoulder. “Fine. I like a challenge.” He flashes a grin and a wink and disappears, leaving Sam sitting on the floor, rolling his eyes.

**SATURDAY, 1:40 PM.**

Sam stands in the shower, hot water pelting his face. He drags his fingers through his hair and tilts his head back, letting the water fill his mouth. He gargles and spits it out, and then a clattering noise makes him jump. “Jesus,” he mutters, and swipes the soap out of his eyes to look around for whatever’s fallen off the shelf. To his surprise, all the bottles are in place, and there’s a sparkling glint by the drain. “What the hell?” Sam breathes, bending down to get a closer look.

“Is that a—is that the—Hope diamond?” he cries, backing up into the slick shower wall.

“Good eye, Sammy!”

Sam shouts and knocks all the soap bottles to the floor. “Damn it, Gabriel!” he swears, and immediately rushes to cover himself, unsuccessfully. Gabriel chuckles. He’s fully clothed, standing with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

“Little late for modesty, bro.”

“Dude. That diamond is famous. That thing costs more than, like—?”

“Your soul?” Gabriel interjects, cheekily.

“Wow. Not cool,” Sam says. “Get that thing out of here. I am  _not_  going to jail for standing naked in the shower with the goddamn Hope diamond.”

“Oh, come on, you don’t think you’re being a little bit dramatic?” Gabriel says, inspecting his fingernails casually. Sam lets out a mangled groan of frustration.

“Just get rid of it before the cops drag me away for grand theft, okay? Put it _back_.”

Gabriel lets out an exaggerated sigh and with a snap of his fingers, the pale blue diamond vanishes. “So, how ‘m I lookin’ now, kiddo?”

Sam turns to him with every intention of turning him down, kicking him out of the shower, maybe slapping him across the face for good measure. But when he sees the hopeful, guileless light in the archangel’s eyes, he can feel some deep, vulnerable corner of his brain melting, softening. The angel smiles at him, folding his hands in front of his chin and poking his lower lip out like a little boy.

This has got to be some kind of angel voodoo bullshit.

“You’re looking…” Sam murmurs, “overdressed.”

Before he can even take another breath, the angel sheds his clothes.

“Is that a yes?” Gabriel asks.

“You might have to work a little harder than that,” Sam replies.

The angel pauses for a moment, then nods and sinks to his knees. He blinks up at Sam, water beading on his cheeks. “As you wish.” Gabriel wraps one palm loosely around the stiffening length of Sam’s cock, his thumb swiping over the slit teasingly. Sam inhales sharply and groans as the angel pulls the head into his hot, perfect mouth. His tongue drags down the vein along the underside of Sam’s cock and he hums hungrily, sending delicious little chills up through Sam’s groin.

“Fuck,” Sam moans, rocking forward and tangling his fingers in the angel’s damp hair. “You’re gonna fucking earn this, angel.” He pulls Gabriel harder onto his cock, feeling the angel’s mouth flutter around him.

Gabriel’s arms wrap around Sam’s thighs, his fingertips pressing into the smooth flesh of Sam’s ass. He takes the hunter’s cock into his mouth as far as he can, choking slightly at first. Sam murmurs, “Good. So good.”

The angel hollows his mouth and sucks hard, drawing back slowly to swirl his tongue around the tip, one hand roving down to cup Sam’s balls in his palm. Sam gazes down at him, his lip curling.

“You think my mouth is good?” Gabriel says softly. “My ass is even better.”

Sam tilts his head, considering the option for a half-second before tugging at the angel’s hair. “Stand up and turn around, baby,” he orders bluntly. Gabriel does as he’s told.

The hunter grins. “Good boy.”

“Who’re you callin’ ‘boy’, kiddo?” Gabriel quips over his shoulder. Sam lands a hard smack on the angel’s ass and leans down to press his lips to the side of Gabriel’s neck, scraping his teeth along the flushed, wet skin.

“You want me? Prove it,” he whispers, and it’s like a resonant growl against the angel’s neck.

“Shut up and fuck me,” Gabriel snarls in response, a smile curving his lips.

Sam is more than happy to oblige.

Being a technically single dude who lives alone, Sam’s not too ashamed to keep a bottle of lube in the shower. It’s nestled between the shampoo and the shaving cream, and it’s got just enough left to slick up his fingers to slide them—delicately at first—into the angel’s hole.

Gabriel bites his lip against the twinge of pain; he could banish the discomfort in a second, but there’s some dark, twisted part of him that desires the pain, craves every millisecond of sharp, intense initiation Sam can give him. The hunter, for all his callous words, is remarkably gentle and cautious, which Gabriel finds both endearing and a little annoying.

He doesn’t want gentle right now. He wants hard and fast and ruthless. He wants to truly earn the right to call Sam Winchester his own. So he bucks against the pressure of Sam’s fingertips, with an encouraging moan. The hunter hesitates for a second, then says, “Eager little cockslut.”

Gabriel nods emphatically. “Don’t tease, Sammy.”

“I’ll do whatever I want,” Sam replies, but he gives in immediately, pressing the head of his cock against Gabriel’s asshole. The angel wiggles his hips; after an eternity of existence and an exhaustive slew of sexual encounters of varying levels of kinkiness, Gabriel doesn’t have a whole lot of hang-ups. He’s certainly not above playing the whore to Sam’s master. It’s a role he slips into easily, comfortably, safe in the knowledge that while Sam spits out curses and epithets and grips his hips like he could tear Gabriel apart, it’s the archangel who is entirely in control at all times. With a blink of his eye he could have Sam on his back. He could have anything he wanted.

But what Gabriel wants is to feel like Sam Winchester owns him.

“Don’t pussyfoot around back there,” Gabriel sneers, leaning back against the head of Sam’s cock. “Fuck me or get out of the shower.”

Sam grunts and pushes into him in one swift thrust. “It’s  _my_  damn bathroom.”

Gabriel groans and arches his back, gripping the shower bar with both hands. “More.”

“Gonna make you beg for it, Gabe.”

The angel swears, “Shit! I want it, Sam. I want it so bad. Please.”

“I don’t think I believe you,” Sam murmurs, and begins to pull out.

The angel lets out a broken yelp. “Please, Sam. I’m begging you to fuck me. Make me yours.”

At this, Sam loses control. He rams into Gabriel hard, his fingertips digging possessively into the angel’s hips, his thighs, his back. He wraps one hand around the smooth wet hair at the back of Gabriel’s neck and pulls him back. “You’re already mine, aren’t you?” he says, his lips hovering just above the angel’s ear. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“I am! I’m yours. All of me. You can have whatever you want,” Gabriel replies quickly, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Sam reaches around to stroke the angel’s cock slowly, agonizingly. “That’s right.”

He slams into Gabriel again and again, burying himself fully inside the angel, one hand still tangled in Gabriel’s hair and the other wrapped around his dick.

Gabriel cries out and pushes back against Sam, desperate to have the hunter fill him up, to claim him, to leave a mark. “Feels so good, Sammy. Ah, fuck.”

“Tell me what you want,” Sam instructs, fucking the angel hard, the hard muscles of his back shining with mingled sweat and water. “Tell me.”

“I want— _ahh_ —I want you to fuck me hard. I wanna feel you for days. I want you to come inside me and fill me up,” Gabriel rambles, losing himself to the mounting sensation gathering hot and ravenous in his groin.

“You’re gonna come soon, aren’t you, angel?” Sam mumbles, slamming into Gabriel with an increasingly erratic rhythm. Gabriel swallows and nods as much as he can with Sam’s fingers tugging his head back.

“Mhmm. Gonna fucking come, Sammy. Please,” he cries. “Please let me come.”

“I’m almost there, baby,” Sam growls, “so fucking close. You feel so fucking good, so tight.”

Gabriel lets out an undignified whimper, and with one sharp thrust, Sam shouts, “Ahh, shit!” and releases himself inside the angel. Sam’s hand quickens the pace around Gabriel’s cock, sliding wet and smooth up and down, and then he whispers, “Come for me, Gabriel.”

Gabriel groans and convulses with the elation of release, spilling hot and sloppy over the hunter’s wrist. After a few more final shoves, Sam pulls out and presses a long, tickling kiss to the back of Gabriel’s neck. “Very good,” he says quietly.

The angel shivers and straightens up, turning around to face Sam. He rocks onto his tiptoes to kiss the hunter, circling his arms around Sam’s waist. “You’re mine now, right?” he asks again.

Sam rolls his eyes and laughs, an adoring smile seizing his face. “Fine. Yes. Yeah, I’m yours. I always was, you know. If you wanted me to say so, all you had to do was ask nicely. And maybe not barge in on me while I’m clipping my toenails.”

“So, the grand romantic gesture stuff—that’s not really your kind of thing, is it?” Gabriel asks, nosing into Sam’s chest. The hunter shakes his head and strokes Gabriel’s hair fondly.

“Yeah, no. Not at all.” He bends to kiss the top of the angel’s head. “But I’ve always been yours. Now, come on, we’ve probably parched a whole rainforest standing in here this long. I don’t know how there’s even any hot water left.”

Gabriel shrugs innocently and replies, “Just one of the many perks of dating an archangel.”

_Dating an archangel_ , Sam ponders,  _who would’ve thought?_


End file.
